


La Vie En Rose

by planetofthewillow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FrUK, M/M, Romance, Shounen-ai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetofthewillow/pseuds/planetofthewillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ancient story I had liked enough to dig up and post here. England spots France and his feelings are exposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Vie En Rose

Heat flitted through me, his coarse hands against my own roused a sound of tutting disapproval inside my throat. Roused, it was, but not enough to push it through. As if it could have gotten past the thin white lines that made up my lips. It was not, in fact, in my interest that my face had flushed to impeccable degrees. Such red cheeks and burning passion never have I felt for! Delicious, I daresay, and very—incredibly—venomous. He was a leech, he was sucking out my blood, I was sure of it, and I was enjoying each and every strained moment. A small, whimpering sound did move through me and rattle my heart. In the heat of the moment, I made a rash decision, I woke up from my fantasies.

He was standing in front of me, I had drifted off in a rude and naughty fantasy that his arms were caressing me in such naughty ways to add to my naughty whimpers. He looked mildly interested, Francis, in the book he was holding. I was hardly speaking to him, we had run into each other at a book shop. He had spotted me (as I, to my great disdain, was flitting through some naughty magazine) and called me over with his usual "cukoo" the French often hoot. I walked to him, legs feeling oddly like pianos and my heart seemingly wanting to escape the cage of my ribs. My breath had run short and my fingers twitched.

Each and every time I had come into contact with the man, I'd fallen deeper and deeper into a pit of love—I was up to my nose before I felt it. Now, at the moment his eyes flicked over to look at me, I was three feet under. Gasping to regain my breath, I was surprised to hear my voice was steady. "Hullo, Francis, fancy seeing you here." I said stiffly, not making contact with my eyes as to not stare at the fine hair and lips… Lips that would feel so soft and gentle against my own… Oh but no! I musn't think such terrible, wonderful thoughts. Without my realizing, my fingers, which were still quivering, were touching my own chaste lips.

"I was in town, and I do love a good book." Francis explained calmly, a smile creeping on his mouth slowly. "What books do you think are worth a re—" he stopped suddenly and tears sprung up. I turned in the direction he had looked at, and then I heard it.

_"Quand il me prend dans ses bras…"_

I slowly turned back to face him, he had gruffly wiped his face and smiled. "Hard to believe it's been already over fifty years, hm?" he of course, was regarding the famous French singer Edith Piaf, who was singing now on the speakers. It seemed ages ago, but Francis (or France as I should call him) with his heart of gold still remembers the nights.

The nights with an ancient record player singing her songs and myself and him dancing slowly to the tune. Humming along, I knew enough French to sing some lyrics, and swirling along as he taught me his newest dances. Fresh after the war, the world free, the young couples going out to dance… It was all so nice and lovely. France had kissed me one brilliant night, his lips caressed mine (I must admit we'd both been quite off due to gracious amounts of wine swishing in our stomachs) and we continued to march around the ballroom.

To our great discontent neither recalled the charming kiss, as it never went further, and we went back to our regular lives. It wasn't until a little birdy whispered in my ear about the fancy kiss. Though, I imagine, it was a long time for humans, hardly a second flitted by and the tragic news struck. At such a young age, in 1963 and hardly 50 years old, the woman had met an end. France was distraught and shut himself in his room. He didn't show is face for weeks on end. The strong stench of wine and grief crept through the cracks in the doors along with his wishes of solitude. It took far too long for him to get back on his feet, but as I have gracefully mentioned, his heart is pure and his love is strong. He loves each and every one of his citizens and is much, and I say much, too forgiving. Why, if I had forgiven every crook and bandit I would be taken for a fool, but we only loved France more.

The music had changed to new pop music, and France regained himself. He smiled at me, and again I made a rash decision, I crept closer. Close enough that I was nearly positive he could hear my shuddering breath and thundering heart. He turned and faced me, "Anglaterre, are you alright?" he asked gently, smiling kindly, "you look like you're ready to run a mile, or you just have…"

I twisted on my heel and faced him. I must have appeared like a very angry goose what with my size and flustered expression. "Do you have any feelings for me?" I asked stupidly, cursing myself instantly.

"What? Of course I do, and despite our troubles, I still find you as a very good friend." France said chucking.

_A very good friend…_

Well, that was that. I was planning my will, I would fake my death and change my name and run off to live with a circus. Or perhaps I would have claimed to have travelled back in time and become a court jester—I certainly was a fool. And a very outrageous one, at that. I fancied ringing my neck at that moment, possible drown myself in books, poison my own coffee…

"Oh," France's astonished voice broke my thoughts, "you meant something else, didn't you?"

I felt as though I were a middle school boy who had just wet himself in front of his crush and the rest of the school. The choking and bitter embarrassment rose up coupled by fury and I crossed my arms. I was afraid and shamed to the spot, the pianos for legs were screwed to the floor and my face was red as cherries.

Unable to move, and unable to speak, France sought to continue.

"In that case, well, I have some bad news to tell you," France cleared his throat and sour sadness built up, shoving in front of the anger and embarrassment. "and some good news." What are you playing me for? I swayed over to face him, legs trembling, I needed something to drink. He continued, "Bad news is, I've been growing impatient for ages, wishing you'd tell me something, and I'm awfully irritated at myself for not noticing the small signs. The good news, is that I do actually have 'feelings' for you. I don't know what you British people say, but we French say 'Je t'aime!' and reward our lovers with this—"

He suddenly leaned forward, and I, unable to move for the life of me, was smacked in the lips. His own mouth was pressed against mine, I relaxed the tension in my face and allowed our two lips to meet and press together. A whined slightly, pressing for a better kiss. He turned his head and grabbed me by the waist, tugged me forward, and broke the kiss. I pleaded for more with my face. He only replied with that trademark chuckle and kissed my forehead. "I did say I had bad news, I'm going to make you wait." He kissed my cheek several loud times and let go.

Standing there, absently rubbing my cheeks, I watched his shadow grow longer and I listened to the music.

_"Voila la vie en rose…"_


End file.
